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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358599">The Better Man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_A_Vampire/pseuds/Not_A_Vampire'>Not_A_Vampire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Patriot (2000)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Post-Patriot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 09:33:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>887</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358599</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_A_Vampire/pseuds/Not_A_Vampire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An account of how Tavington did Not die.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Better Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As he drifted in and out of consciousness Tavington first became aware of the vicious pain in his chest and abdomen, then the copper taste of the blood brought up from his stomach in his mouth, and the distant sound of shouted commands. </p><p>As if through a fog, he realized that he’d fallen to the ground, the bayonet digging deeper into his flesh. “God,” the word died on his lips with a pained wheeze. </p><p>“Oi, Brackens! Git over here, it’s the Colonel!” Footsteps drew rapidly closer. “‘E looks bad, too.”</p><p>“Aye,” a different, gruffer, voice spoke. “Reckon we should try and patch him up a bit and carry him back to the surgeon?” </p><p>“‘Ere, first things first we need to get that bayonet out of ‘im.” </p><p>"No, no, let the surgeon do't."</p><p>Tavington felt hands turning him onto his back, the movement causing white hot pain to shoot through him. A strangled cry was wrenched out of his throat, and his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. </p><p>“Careful now, Brackens! D’you want ‘im to die before we get him back?” </p><p>“Sorry, sorry…” Brackens &amp; the other hoisted him semi-gently up between them. “There we are, Sir. Can ye hear me?” </p><p>“Damn you,” Tavington struggled to open his eyes, “just let me die, will you?” He coughed violently, gagged, and felt something warm trickle down his chin before the world turned black once more. </p><p>-</p><p>“How is he?” It was Cornwallis. </p><p>Tavington struggled up out of darkness, gasping as his eyes flew open. “Sir?” His voice was raspy, and the movement sent pain shooting through him. </p><p>“Ah, Tavington! Don’t move.” Cornwallis pushed aside the canvas flap of the tent and stepped inside. “I’m glad you’re alright, Colonel.” </p><p>“Hah!” One of his hands flew up to the bandage wrapped around his chest. “Am I?” Hatred filled his eyes, “I could’ve killed Martin! Should’ve,” he could taste gunpowder and blood in his mouth, though both were long gone, “he should’ve killed me when he had the chance. Sir.” </p><p>Cornwallis only shook his head. “Get some rest, Colonel.” He lingered for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before he turned and left. </p><p>Tavington’s lips curled up into a strained sneer. “Should’ve…” His voice trailed off and he fell into a fitful sleep. </p><p>-</p><p>“Well?” His tone was venomous as he stared down at the surgeon that was examining the patchwork of bruises, scars, and stitches that mottled his skin. </p><p>“Well, Colonel,” the man straightened up and looked him in the eye, “You had a good Doctor with a steady hand, and some damn good luck. You may recover. If you’re very careful. That means no riding, no fighting, no strenuous movement. And bandages changed every day.” </p><p>Tavington clenched his jaw. “And what do you expect me to do, then? I refuse to sit idly by while my men fight!” </p><p>The surgeon sighed, “I’m sorry sir, but if you want to have any hope of being able to at least ride again, you’ll have to wait.”</p><p>“And for how long?” </p><p>He hesitated. “It could be a year or more, sir. There’s no way of telling.”</p><p>Tavington slammed his fist down onto the cot he sat on, then flinched at the sudden pain in his arm from the gunshot wound. “A year? The war could be over by then, and that damned rebel Martin is still out there!” </p><p>“I know, sir.” The surgeon stepped back, finished changing Tavington’s dressing and bandages. “And easy now, mind.” </p><p>Gingerly pulling his shirt back down, Tavington stood and swayed for a moment before recovering himself. “Thank you surgeon, I’m sure I’ll manage.” Slowly, painfully, he walked back to his tent. </p><p>Pulling off his coat a sharp pain ripped through his side. Folding in on himself with a gasp, he looked down at his abdomen and saw a bloodstain spreading, soaking into his shirt. With growing horror, he turned back towards the entrance of the tent, vision fading in and out. “Help,” his voice was no more than a whisper. “Help!” He staggered towards the daylight that slid out of focus. “Hel-” His feet felt like lead, and he fell heavily, a hand stretched imploringly towards the light that fell into blackness. </p><p>-</p><p>“Will I live?” </p><p>The question hung in the air for what seemed like a very long time. </p><p>“I think so,” the surgeon’s voice was serious, “sir.”</p><p>“Perhaps a better question is, how much longer will I live?” The ghost of a wry smile flickered across Tavington’s lips.</p><p>“Well sir, I can better answer that question! I’ve ordered you to stay in bed for a few weeks. That’ll give your wounds time to close again. Provided that all goes well, you’ll live just as long as you don’t get yourself shot again.” </p><p>“Well.” A strained laugh escaped him, “Then I’ll live at least a few weeks.” His icy blue eyes were fixed on a corner of his tent. “You may go.”</p><p>“Very well sir. Remember, don’t move unless it is absolutely necessary!”</p><p>“Yes, yes,” Tavington weakly waved the man away. </p><p>A heavy silence hung in the air, smothering the sounds of camp. </p><p>“I will live,” Tavington spoke aloud, as if making a vow to himself, “just so I can find that bastard and kill him.” A touch of color rose in his bloodless face. “We’ll see who the better man is.”</p>
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